


Care Package Inbound

by Slater_Babe



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Care packages, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Long Distance Relationship, Longing, New Relationship, Pining, Realization of Feelings, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day Fluff, Yearning, holiday fluff, no beta we die like men, the military, very slight angst, video games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29468064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slater_Babe/pseuds/Slater_Babe
Summary: In all his time in the military, Frankie’s never got a care package. Not from his mother during basic, not from his friends during his specialized training, anddefinitelynot from any girlfriend he ever had during his deployment. But you just love to defy expectations, don't you?
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Original Female Character(s), Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Reader, Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 46





	Care Package Inbound

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello!! I'm back again with more Frankie fluff~~ this is my little gift to you all for Valentine's Day~ I hope you all had a wonderful time yesterday and spent your time happy!! This was originally posted on my Tumblr (linked below), so if you wanna see the original version it's right there!! Thank you all for your amazing support and I really hope you like this lil fic!!
> 
> Also, High Rise AO3 will be getting another chapter today, so stick around If you wanna check that out!!
> 
> My Tumblr: [slater-baby](https://slater-baby.tumblr.com)

“They’ve got a sentry now,” Benny mumbles with a scoff, eyes almost unblinking as he studies the screen with a disbelieving look.

Pope shakes his head, arms crossed where he stands next to the TV, “You’ve really lost it now.”

“No--no, don’t say that. We’re only 7 kills behind; that’s nothing,” Will assures with a few determined jerks of his joysticks.

Santiago just laughs and points to Will’s half of the screen, “Yeah. Tell that to your grand kill streak of 3.”

Watching his friends miserably try to outdo a group of try-hard teenagers and angrily mash buttons on their controllers, Frankie just looks on with a smile. On base, there wasn’t much fun to be had aside from reading books or playing video games--and even then, those things quickly got old. Frankie had played a couple rounds earlier on, but he found himself more frustrated than entertained the longer the losing streak had gone on. Immature idiots they are, Will and Benny had insisted it was just a fluke on their part. However, 3 games later and with a combined K:D of about .35, their egos had melted away as quick as ice cubes under a blow torch.

Frankie throws a look at Santiago before shaking his head. Sticking his hands into the pockets of his fatigues, he turns to walk away, ignoring the damning sound of the video game’s voice actor scolding his soldiers for their poor performance.

“Cat, where you going? I thought you said you were stick around for a few more rounds,” Will throws over his shoulder, hardly turning from the screen as he absentmindedly starts another lobby.

Frankie pauses in his step with a chuckle or two, “Yeah, I did. But that was before I watched you two throw a dozen games just ‘cause a few preteens pulled you off your high horses.”

He doesn’t even need to look behind him to know there are a pair of middle fingers facing his turned back as he walks towards the barracks. They were currently deployed somewhere in eastern Ukraine for a few special-ops recon missions, nothing too major (yet with the current political climate, Frankie hardly has the mind to call it meaningless). Usually, they’d be working or training this time of day, but bad weather had left them grounded for the foreseeable future. The minute Frankie had crawled out of his horrifically inadequate, military issued blankets that morning, the frigid air turning his skin to ice almost at first contact, he knew they’d spend the day shooting virtual guns rather than real ones.

Not that he minded. Maybe he’d gone soft with age, or maybe he’d just lost his touch, but the old thrill of recon-piloting didn’t get him going like it used to. Probably something to do with how he’d spent his last period of leave sharing your dreamy double bed almost every evening, warm and soft and safe without the constant threat of violence or admonishment hanging over his head while he caught a few extra Zs.

He grins at the thought. 

You hadn’t been his girlfriend for long--hell, you’d only made it official a couple weeks before he was set to be redeployed. But, even if there was only 14 or 15 days of real affection between the two of you, his feelings had stretched long beyond his stuttered confession or quiet nights in you’d shared.

You’d worked at his mother’s flower shop for a few months the summer before, needing a little extra money to stay afloat between jobs. He’d thought you radiant then, a little patch of sunshine amidst the rows of ornate bouquets and sophisticated potted plants. You just had that effect on people: you could pull complete strangers under your spell the minute they walked through the front door, could get even the grumpiest old fools to foot you a generous tip without even batting an eye. You were a force of your own and unapologetically so. God help the people that fell in love with you, and Frankie was hardly an exception.

Now with his mother getting older, he’d made a habit of coming around the shop to do the heavy lifting for her, which usually entailed carrying ceramic flower pots and grow-lights back and forth between the crowded shelves. He’d seen you then, cradling the delicate petals of a daffodil between your fingers, a smile blooming softly on your lips.

And just like that, you had him.

The days moving forward from that moment were spent in a flurry of fluff and frills, memories washed over with rose-colored dye in his mind, where his fondness for you lived in unbothered luxury. He’d wasted August and September in a nervous stupor, October and November in unabashed admiration, and until up December, he’d been content with that.

You were set to leave his mother’s shop the day after the Christmas sale, since you’d finally found another position at a gardening company a few hours down the highway. He’d been crushed, understandably. The day of your farewell party, his mother had comforted him in the backroom, pinched his cheeks and hugged him a little too tight, assuring him a few of the cupcakes from the party would make him forget all about you.

And it goes without saying that she’d been dead wrong. He spent January throwing himself into his work at the flower shop, picking up the slack now that you weren’t around to handle the grouchy customers or heavy boxes. For the most part, it had been a good distraction.

But then February came, and with it, _you._

You, in a snow-dusted puff jacket and a smile on your face, throwing your arms around his shoulders in a bear hug as you went on and on about how much you’d missed him between then and now. He’d about died of surprise that day, but held you nonetheless. It turns out that you’d be spending a few weeks in town to see your own parents, and figured you’d pay his mother a visit while you had the chance.

He’d asked you out a week later. And his heart exploded the minute you’d said yes.

So he’d gone back home with you, drove the hours it took to get to your new place in the next town over just to spend the night cuddled up on the couch, sharing lava cake and take-out from the restaurants around town. 

When the letter came in, however, and he’d been called to service once again, he wasn’t expecting you to cry. His girlfriend of two weeks, a girl he really hardly knew. And yet you did. You held onto the sides of his shirt, tears hot against his neck, and begged him to stay, and as much as he wished he could, you both knew he didn’t have a choice. 

And so now, here he was, knee-deep in Ukranian snowfall while you were comfy and cozy back home, probably lounging beneath that heated blanket he knew you couldn’t live without. It makes him smile bitterly, the image of you without him, but he holds in his feelings for another time.

If there were any perks that came with being in Delta force, it was the separate rooms. He’d made it through basic and beyond on those stiff, unforgiving slabs of metal the government dare call bunk beds. But after about two decades of that BS, his back couldn’t stand the abuse any longer. Needless to say, when he’d first been initiated and moved into his new quarters, he’d nearly cried with relief at the sight of the (still somewhat crappy) twin bed he was now afforded. 

However, instead of relieved, now all he is is jaded. (You’re entirely to blame for that, by the way, spoiling him with your stupidly comfortable mattress and mounting pile of pillows).

He yanks open the door of his quarters with a sigh, a waft of stale air washing over with him at the intrusion. But he doesn’t find what he expects.

Instead of the pristine bed covers that topped the bed usually (the yelling he got from his drill sergeant during basic over not making his bed would _never_ allow him to fold it to anything less than coin-bouncing perfection), a heavy cardboard box pushes into the comforter, sending wrinkles rippling through the fabric.

He walks up to it curiously, thumbing the white tag on the top that’s labeled plainly with his name and rank.

He settles himself on the bed next to the box, pulling out a pocket knife to deal with the tape at the top, before he’s tugging it open impatiently. The first thing that meets his eye is a folded piece of paper at the top of the pile of items stacked inside; he tugs it forward with eager fingers.

Upon opening the letter, red pen and loopy handwriting stare back at him.

> _Dear Frankie,_
> 
> _I’m not sure when you’ll get this package (seriously, I really don’t get the postal service--or the military for that matter), but hopefully it’s sometime close to Valentine’s day?? Regardless, I miss you more than the world right now. It’s been snowing since Tuesday and I’ve got no one to shovel my driveway for me or share the blanket with me at night (really, how dare you leave the night before a blizzard came and buried my car in three feet of ice). I’ve had to eat all the Oreos in the pantry all by myself since you’re not here to share them with me, and--even though I know you’ll be seething to hear it--I finished the last season of The Night Of without you (sorry not sorry; the cliffhanger from the last season was just too good to resist….I promise I won’t spoil it for you, though.) We can rewatch it when you get back :)._
> 
> _Anyways, I’ll try to keep it short, since I know you’re probably really busy with your military stuff right now. But, even though I like joking around and pushing your buttons, just know that I’m going crazy without you. I wish you were here. You spoiled me those two weeks you were around, and now every night I go to bed, I can’t help but think it’d be easier to fall asleep with you next to me. I’m sure it’s hard on your end, suddenly going to Ukraine and all that. But I hope you’re still thinking of me, because I know for sure I’m thinking of you :)_
> 
> _I’m eating lava cake right now. I’d have shipped you a piece if the military let me, but the government is kinda a pain the ass nowadays with the rules and whatnot. Regardless, I hope you like the gifts I sent!! It’s not much, but I hope it at least means something._
> 
> _I miss you, Francisco. Stay safe while you’re gone!_
> 
> _Sincerely,  
>  You Know Who <3_

He’s shocked still with something akin to surprise after reading through the letter--though, really, it’s not surprise at all. It’s something softer than that, underwhelming and insistent where it simmers underneath his skin, but with the same paralyzing qualities.

His eyes stay locked on the paper for a minute longer, not re-reading the letter, but not moving on from it either. Eventually, though, when he feels like he can breathe again, he sets the letter gently aside and peers into the box.

Frankie can’t help but feel like you’d been lying when you said it wasn’t much.

The box is brimming with different packages, heavy with weight and overflowing with sentimentality. 

He can tell how much effort you put into it just from the way it’s arranged alone. Every piece is individually wrapped in sickeningly sweet pink wrapping paper, sparkly bows tacked onto the bigger parts, though they’ve been slightly crushed by the treatment of the postal service. It’s a monstrosity of red and pink, ugly and incomprehensible with clumsiness, since your hands couldn’t afford the same steadiness to gift-wrapping as they did to bouquet-making, apparently.

But even so, tears well up nonetheless.

His throat hurts as he looks down at it, vision blurry with water as your affection stares back at him from inside the box. It’s mushy and loud and unsightly, but so obvious and comforting that he has to put a hand over his mouth to muffle the sob that spills forth.

He’s never gotten a care package before--not from his parents during basic, not from his friends during his specialized training, and definitely not from any girlfriend he’d ever had during his deployment.

Yet here you are, his girlfriend of two weeks, sending him something like this. Sending him the very embodiment of your feelings laid out on a silver platter for him to touch and feel, for him to see and experience, even 1000 miles away. It’s tough, how rudimentary these feelings must be for any one person, but how smothering they are for him.

It’s torturous, heart-aching, deathly _longing,_ and he loves every minute of it.

His shaking hands tear uselessly at the paper, quiet sniffles following each revelation. A stack of polaroid photos from around your house: a picture of a wonky snowman he assumes you’d made after the blizzard hit, a picture of his mother sitting across from you in a coffee shop, as well as a picture of a lava cake sitting in a to-go package.

There’s two bags of new socks--the comfortable ones he swears by that you had somehow noticed; an entire _pile_ of hand warmers and a new pair of work gloves, labeled with a pink sticky note that says _“I know you’ve probably lost a few fingers to the cold out there, so I hope I’m not too late in giving you these,”_ followed by a winky face.

There’s bags of chocolate Kisses and Valentine’s Sweethearts, Pocky, chips and dried fruit. Somehow, you even managed to cram a few new books around the edges of the package, all of them horribly wrapped and adorned with little sticky notes about what you thought he’d like about them.

However, when he gets to the last package, a big rectangular one tucked into the corner, he can’t hold back the tears any longer.

He cries as he stares down at the package of Oreos in his hands. The two of you had probably eaten through at least 3 boxes of them during the two weeks he’d stayed with you, and as if it wasn’t evident, you knew he couldn’t resist them. The last night before his deployment, he’d spent the night cradling you against his chest while you giggled up at his face with the sound of the TV in the background, stuffing the cookies in his mouth one after the other, just to taste them again when he kissed you.

He lays back on his bed, a hand covering his wet eyes and lungs stuttering with deep sobs as he cradles the picture of the snowman to his chest.

God, he misses you.

He misses you _so, so much._

A week before you’d come back into his life, if you’d have asked him how far his feelings ran, he wouldn’t have been able to get very far. Though now, alone in his military quarters, crying over something as stupid as Oreos or snowmen, he’d be able to describe every painful pang that comes when his heart clenches just at the thought of your name.

He wants to go home, wants to share your bed and rewatch that TV show with you in his arms. For as much as he loves his friends with all his heart, he’d leave them without their pilot just to get back to you right now. 

And it’s then that the realization hits him.

He _loves_ you. 

It’s only been two weeks, and he loves you. He’s away in Ukraine--an entire lifetime away from you--and he loves you.

He’s here, and you’re there, and he _loves_ you.

He spends the rest of the night safeguarding his Oreos from his overeager friends, re-reading the letter over and over again, smiling wider with each word.

And, once again, he wants to come back home to you. And by god if he isn’t going to do it.

**Author's Note:**

> UwU I hope you all loved this lil piece~~ please leave requests for short fics or headcanons you wanna see down below or send them to my ask box on Tumblr!! I do all the Pedro characters, so if you have a fic you want written, just lemme know and I'll get on it!!
> 
> My Tumblr: [slater-baby](https://slater-baby.tumblr.com)


End file.
